


surrounded by a charm of hummingbirds

by ennaih (aquandrian)



Series: Death Trooper AU [9]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Death Trooper AU, F/M, Fluff, cos we need this right now, holiday fic, shameless syrupy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:53:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquandrian/pseuds/ennaih
Summary: It’s not a holiday. It’s a pause for breath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired almost entirely by [this wonderful pic and drabble by and-then-bam-cassiopeia](http://directororsonwelleskrennic.tumblr.com/post/153031083647/and-then-bam-cassiopeia-jynnics-see-this-is). I've been wanting to write this ever since Cass posted that, and well, come the time, come the fic.
> 
> Also cos I [threatened jynnics a few weeks ago](http://ennaih.tumblr.com/post/152154945925/jynnics-ennaih-jynnics-na-takes-a-deep) with "the syrupiest fluffiest fic just to make [her] suffer."
> 
> Title from _Jesus Alone_ by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. And here I thought I'd never find an opportunity to write fic for this lyric I love so much.

The sunlight on this planet is particularly clear and pure. It’s almost painfully beautiful the way it gleams the trees new with spring foliage and catches the blood red flowers on shrub tendrils arcing high against the blue sky. An open arrow of birds darts so far above her, the faintest shadow of their other life, the life they’re escaping just for a moment.

He walks beside her, head bent and hands in the pockets of loose white trousers, his silver hair stroked by the breeze that stirs her light dress against her knees. She watches him until she realises she’s being too anxious, that he can probably feel the weight of her attention. So she forces herself to look back to the road winding down the hill, to look around her at this pretty planet and this picture perfect village they’re walking down towards. Behind them on the crest of the hill is the grand old house with its polished wooden floors and billowing white curtains on full length windows. It’s not where they live, not even their secret home.

But it’s what they need right now. A few days of intense sleep. No, he was the one who slept so long, sunk deep in the soft white four poster bed, like everything in him had drained away and turned off, gone away from her. So she had prowled the house, poked around the library, tried and failed in the kitchen. And she had tried not to worry about him, tried to remember to trust that he’d come back to her. On the second day, a couple of humans had trudged up from the village, said they had been hired to cook and clean for them. Jyn had lowered her blaster, somewhat abashed, and fled back to the holovids in the library.

On the fourth day, he had appeared at the long glass doors that looked out on the flat green lawn, so quiet it had taken her a while to realise he was there. “What’s that?” he asked mildly when she stopped, flustered, and came towards him, pushing the strands of hair away from her face. 

“That? Oh, nothing. Just something I found in the library. I thought I’d try it out. Might be useful in a fight.”

That particular art of movement has nothing to do with combat skills. She doesn’t tell him that she likes the flow and elegance of it, the way it moves her with the breeze, makes her feel young and green and beautiful somehow, in tune with the gentle world around her. 

They eat together in the kitchen with its high bright ceilings, the air scented with so much hanging herbs. “There’s a village fair today,” she offers. “The cook told me. Shall we go?”

It’s absurd, she knows as soon as she says it. But he doesn’t protest, merely nods as he takes both their bowls to the sink and runs the water. She looks at the way he moves, the utter quietness of him, not the least hint of menace about him, not even that he’s broken. Just thoughtful. He’s found a loose white shirt and white trousers from somewhere, they’re not clothes she’s ever seen before. The sunlight catches the glittering rush of water from the faucet, catches the creased lovely skin of his face, the soft serious line of his mouth. She knows as she has always known, that she could watch him forever.

So they walk down the hill to the village, she in a cream lace dress she found in an old armoire, feeling absurdly deliciously feminine in cream lace shoes and a wide floppy white hat. They would never be recognised like this, it’s a kind of freedom she’d never considered. And she’s still remembering the way he smiled when he saw her like this. A small cheeky smile, so boyish and affectionate she knew all over again that she is loved.

Now as they approach the bright colours and chatter of the fair on the village boundary, she takes his hand, wanting to remind him of tenderness. He tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, his fingers fastened over hers. She feels like a lady beside him, like they’re some newly engaged couple on a pleasure stroll or a couple that has been together for decades and decades, loyal and unassailable. People are smiling at them, human and alien, a comfortable mess of species coexisting in a rustic green utopia. And they’re one more couple in the crowd, wandering between the stalls of homemade trinkets and sweet things, children scampering around them, pleasantly jostled by the aromas of so much interesting food and the colours of so much rural creativity.

She lets him go where he wants, knows when his attention snags on a display of steel sculptures or a range of honeys from the local apiaries. They don’t talk much but he smiles at her with his kind blue grey eyes when he buys her a sweet whorled pastry and she tips the brim of her hat back so she can kiss him with sugar on her lips under the coral shade of an awning. He keeps contact between them always as they move through the fair, whether it’s a hand at the small of her back, warm through the cream lace, or their fingers linked together, private between them as they walk. There’s music on the air, flowers banked in vivid colours, familiar and unrecognised, glittering crystals that ache her heart and catch the glitter of his eyes.

He sits in the sunshine alone when she goes to get them something cool to drink. A lonely quiet man with ruffled hair and freckled skin, there’s a grave dark weight in the way he watches the villagers and their families enjoy one blithe afternoon in a world as yet unsullied. She watches him from where she stands in the line, wanting to comfort him and knowing she doesn’t have the words or maybe even the softness for it. 

They had thought it would work. He had planned and manoeuvred for so many months, years even, said all the right things, cultivated all the right people. She knows he had done everything possible. And it hadn’t worked. All those dreams, all the glory and fierce righteous intentions, all snatched away. 

A few systems away, an insane tyrant, newly appointed, is about to unleash havoc. And she knows the quiet thoughtful man sitting there will have to put on his gloves and his military insignia, swirl the cape of command around him, and set all the viciousness of his mind and the might of the Empire to save a galaxy that maybe isn’t worth saving. Believing in the goodness of humanity is a kind of rebellion, and not one she can ever manage, not with all she’s seen and all she’s done. 

Beyond him, a couple of small children whisper to each other and stare at him and whisper some more, giggling between them. She catches their attention, quizzical, and they rush past him towards her. An urgent question in the manner of children everywhere, and she chuckles and says, “Yes, go for it.”

They sneak up behind him, he pretends to be quite unaware, pretends to look in the opposite direction. In a burst of bravery, they pop the thing on his head and hurtle off, screaming triumph and uproarious laughter.

The Director of the Imperial Army inclines his silver head so the flower crown tilts over one elegant brow, and looks over at Jyn Erso. She bites her lip and calls to him, “It suits you!”

He grins, beautiful and startlingly happy. The flower crown is all huge pink and white blooms, and it stays on for the rest of the afternoon, his mood just as buoyant. She leans her head against his shoulder, bending the brim of her wide floppy hat between them, glad it hides her wide soft smile. The drinks are iced, flavoured with rose and milk. His mouth tastes like rose and cool when he fastens a delicate silver bracelet on her wrist and kisses her under the brim of her hat, a delicate sort of thanks. She kisses him back long and slow, her heart full.

Maybe this little part of the galaxy is worth saving. And if this little part is worth saving, maybe another and another. Is this how goodness is found, she wonders. But then she looks at the way he smiles at people screaming happily on the big wheel descending against the blue sky, and knows he is still the same man, brilliant and focused. She doesn’t need to ask him what they will do now that the galaxy is changed forever. They’ll work it out together. 

As they walk up the hill, laden with delicious things and pretty things from the fair, the breeze swirls up with them. And with it comes a flock of small colourful birds that swarm around them for a few dizzying seconds, and then soar off into the perfect arcing sky. Jyn swears, not about to lose hold of their spoils. 

Krennic laughs, and it’s a bright joyful sound, all hope and renewed vision. They’ll make the galaxy right again.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Jyn was doing tai chi.
> 
> And yes, I wrote flower crown Krennic. Also something I've been planning for ages, ever since [ohhpossum/directorerso posted this perfect image.](http://directororsonwelleskrennic.tumblr.com/post/147699201522/directorjyn-men-bendelsohn)
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> This is how we roll. :p


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